


Shorn

by Henanigans



Series: Enjolras' Hair: An Anthology [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Henanigans/pseuds/Henanigans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something in Enjolras' mind clicks and he rolls his eyes at his friends. Enjolras adjusts his glasses and rubs a hand on his nape, up the scritchy stubbled patch of skin above his neck. It's still jarring to feel the lack of curls he's been so used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shorn

**Author's Note:**

> This is set somewhere in the future after the events from [Pomade](http://archiveofourown.org/works/829183). It can be read as a stand-alone too, though.
> 
> This is for [cumberass](http://cumberass.tumblr.com/) because she is a giant enabler and she kept me sane for two hours when I banged this out on a whim at three in the morning. Also for [yallaintright](http://archiveofourown.org/users/yallaintright/pseuds/yallaintright) and for everyone else who still isn't 100% sold on the hotness that is Aaron Tveit's new hair-do.

Enjolras picks up on it after his third jab at the inconsistencies of Prop. 19. At this point on a regular meeting, he'd be knee deep in Grantaire's half-hearted attempts to raise his hackles, or at least assaulted with fifty different noises of discontent. He looks up from his moleskine and looks at the members of The ABC:

Combeferre, who is usually occupied with taking the minutes, is looking dead straight at Enjolras, pen poised on a determinedly blank sheet of paper. Courfeyrac's mouth is hanging open, and appears to have been for the last five minutes or so since Enjolras started with his usual pre-debate spiel. Marius and Cosette are sporting his-and-hers matching looks of deer in the headlights. Jehan is looking at him as if Enjolras physically punched him in the stomach. Joly's eyebrows are scrunched together so hard Enjolras is afraid it might stay that way. Eponine is making Grantaire her personal handkerchief, his shoulder effectively blocking whatever she might be doing with her mouth. Enjolras thinks she might be biting down with the way Grantaire is grimacing. 

"Is there a problem?" Enjolras asks.

"Um," Courfeyrac blinks and Enjolras can't remember the last time he's reduced his friend to being unable to form actual words.

"Enjolras, you..." Combeferre tries, gesturing to Enjolras' face with his pen.

"What happened? Are you sick? Are you not telling us something?" Cosette says faintly and grips Marius' hand tighter. 

Something in Enjolras' mind clicks and he rolls his eyes at his friends. Enjolras adjusts his glasses and rubs a hand on his nape, up the scritchy stubbled patch of skin above his neck. It's still jarring to feel the lack of curls he's been so used to. 

"I had a haircut. As you can see."

"And you're. Okay with that?" Courfeyrac says, seeming to regain his voice, "Was it for a dare? Did Bahorel put you up to this?"

"Oh. I know," Joly pipes up and smiles at Enjorlas in earnest, "you donated your hair to charity."

Everyone in the room seems to deflate with relief and one after the other have that shared look on their faces that students get after finishing a particularly difficult exam.

Everyone but Grantaire, that is. He is the only one who seems wholly unmoved by Joly's proclamation, eyes trained on Enjolras, smirking with an eyebrow raised.

Enjolras clears his throat, "So, anyway, that's settled now. Where did I leave off?"

\- - -

"You. Are a terrible influence on me."

"That didn't sound like a no, Enjolras."

The afternoon's meeting wrapped up much like all their other ones. A solid hour or so of verbal sparring, discussion of current events, and sharing of local causes, and about another half hour of idle chit-chat and general lollygagging. It was a Thursday and that usually meant karaoke night at The Tavern right after. It was also Bahorel's birthday and when 5:30 chimed in, each one of the members of The ABC trickled out of the classroom.

All but two.

Enjolras has always been the last to head out of the room, making sure everything is exactly how it's supposed to be. And lately, Grantaire has fallen into the habit of lingering-- either he'd fallen half asleep on a desk or found to be unwilling to move from his seat until he'd finish whatever he was drawing on his sketchpad. 

At least that's what everyone else thinks.

"We can't. This is where I have my Political Science class." 

Enjolras breath fogs up his glasses. His back is pressed up against the door, hips pinned against Grantaire's. Enjolras clutches at Grantaire's collar, but not all together pushing him away. 

"That's what you said yesterday. And the other day. And the other day. And the day before the weekend," Grantaire punctuates each sentence with a firm kiss on Enjolras' mouth, his chin, the swell of his cheek, the tip of his nose. He nimbly takes the frames off Enjorlas' face and stows it away.

"Friday," Enjolras groans out because words are hard when Grantaire's deft fingers are brushing the tip of Enjolras' cock. His vision blurs and it has nothing to do with being devoid of his reading glasses.

Grantaire laughs because he is Lucifer incarnate.

"Excuse me?" he asks and Enjolras thinks it's quite unfair to be expected an intelligent answer when Grantaire grips Enjolras fully, setting an easy, familiar rhythm.

"The day before the weekend, ah, is Friday. You idiot."

"You're still talking in complete sentences. I must be doing something wrong today."

"What-" 

Enjolras doesn't get to say exactly what (not that he had any semblance of coherency to form any semblance of linear thought) because Grantaire is fitting his lips over Enjolras', effectively sealing any retort he may or may not have thought up. Grantaire's hand speeds up and his mouth swallows all the noises Enjolras is making. It all goes embarrassingly fast from that point on and Enjolras has the gall to look put-out after coming down from orgasm. He usually has much more self-control than this.

"Are you rating my handjob?" Grantaire jokes, "You look like you're giving me a four out of ten."

"God, do you ever shut up?" Enjolras maneuvers them so it's Grantaire who is backed up against the door. Enjolras gets down to his knees so fast he gets a head rush but it's worth it what with the look on Grantaire's face-- dark hair a mess from Enjolras' clutches, lips shiny and pink and parted and  _panting_.

Enjolras is not so sure if his head rush completely went away, if at all.

He looks up at Grantaire, sees a frisson of want and heat and something else entirely and he can't decide if he wants to look away from the intensity or delve further and get lost in those blue eyes. Enjolras goes for what he decides is a happy medium and undoes Grantaire's pants.

"Enjolras."

Enjolras snaps his head up, finds Grantaire's eyes again while his fingers never stall from the task at hand. Grantaire doesn't say anything else but Enjolras knows from the cadence of his voice and the look on his face that Grantaire is  _worried._  That somehow he thinks Enjolras doesn't  _have_  to. That Grantaire thinks he isn't allowed this. 

"Hey," Enjolras smiles, eyes still locked with Grantaire's as he unconsciously thumbs at the jut of Grantaire's hip bones, "We good?"

Grantaire bites his lip, the tense arch of his body visibly dissipating.  Grantaire plants his hand onto Enjolras shoulders, as if he physically needs the contact to ground himself. 

"You gotta warn a guy before you pull something like that," Grantaire says weakly, but grinning.

"Alright. My turn to see if I can get you to stop talking."

It turns out Enjolras is both right and wrong with his theory because on one hand, Grantaire isn't forming any actual words, but on the other he is making a great deal of noise. He eases Grantaire's cock out of his mouth with a pop.

"R, you need to shut up, seriously," Enjolras is surprised at how guttural his voice sounds. 

"Nghhh."

Enjolras swallows a laugh and gingerly gets up to his feet. Grantaire's eyes are closed but the snap open when Enjolras thumbs at his slit. 

"Looks like I'll have to do it your way, then," Enjolras locks their lips together, mimicking what Grantaire just did not too long ago.

Grantaire's hands find their way to cradle the sides of Enjolras' face, his clever fingers grazing the stubble of Enjolras' newly-shorn head. Enjolras twists his fist around Grantaie's cock, knowing fully well the effect this makes. By now, Grantaire would be gripping handfuls of Enjolras hair but instead his hands are scrabbling at the loss of something to anchor him. Enjolras moans when Grantaire's fingernails scrape sharply across Enjolras' scalp and that's enough to drive him to pick up the pace and Grantaire is coming and biting down on Enjorlas' lower lip. 

\- - -

"The new look doesn't seem so bad now, huh." Grantaire says smugly, leaning against a desk.

Enjorlas scoffs while he finishes strapping his belt back on, "Good to know, R."

It's all Grantaire's fault when it comes down to it, really. It involved copious amounts of crimson paint, two sets of raging libidos, and a stubborn disregard for the words "keep lid on when not in use". Also, fifteen minutes late to class and an extra ten minutes away from campus, it was much easier to just cut off all of Enjolras' hair rather than to explain to everyone in his Psychology class (Combeferre and Courfeyrac included) how come his formerly blond locks are now the exact same shade as the paint spatters on the front of Grantaire's hoodie. 

"Really. I think the hair-- I mean, lack of hair-- is growing on me," Grantaire quips, bumping his shoulder against Enjolras'. "Pun intended."

"At least my boyfriend likes it, then." Enjolras says, "everyone else thinks that either I'm dying or I'd gone insane." Enjorlas says off-hand and it takes him a few beats to realize why Grantaire has stalled halfway from zipping his pants. 

Oh.

"Oh," Enjorlas says as much but it's a lot less unsure than it sounded in his head. "Yes." he says firmly.

"Yes?"

"I mean," Enjolras balks, "If that's what you want?" he fights to keep his eyes locked with Grantaire's because he knows this is important and it's been niggling at the back of his mind since the first time he'd gotten to kiss Grantaire's smirk off his face, weeks before when all this started.

Grantaire draws a breath and for a moment Enjorlas is faced with the possibility of Grantaire laughing this off, brushing it away as a lark, and Enjorlas is hit by how much  _he_  wants this-- how much, and how long, he's wanted this. 

"Of course. I mean, yes. Yes." Grantaire says loud and sure, with a nod and a small smile. Enjolras is pretty sure his cheeks will ache later with the amount of smiling that's going on. 

"Hey. Seems like a waste now, cutting your hair. To hide. This," Grantaire motions his hands between the two of them.

Enjolras hates the way Grantaire's voice still has a tinge of doubt so he leans forward and presses his lips against Grantaire's. It's  the sort of kiss that's like an afterthought, the type that needn't go any further because there is always the promise of more in the future. He faces Grantaire fully, needlessly patting down the creases of his sweatshirt.

"Not a waste," Enjorlas says, "I told you. My boyfriend doesn't seem to mind."

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to hit me up on [Tumblr](http://henanigans.tumblr.com/) and say hi!


End file.
